More Than One Way to Kill a King
by CRYSTLRD
Summary: During King Galdran's rule, a tragic "accident" in Tlanth sends Meliara Astiar to the last place she wants to go: the court of Athanarel. Not only must she navigate its intricacies while plotting revenge, but she must face the man she believes turned traitor many years ago: the Marquis of Shevraeth. How can he convince her that there's more than one way to kill a king? Mel/Vidanric
1. Chapter 1

**More Than One Way To Kill A King**

_Story Notes:_ The inspiration for this is an alternate scenario that explores what would happen if Meliara arrived at Court during Galdran's rule, much like the other nobles. This of course raises complications with the man she just can't get along with in any universe: the Marquis of Shevraeth. Some of the backstory has been reworked to accommodate an earlier relationship with Mel/Vidanric – I hope the details of which slowly become clearer as the story goes on! I've read Crown/Court duel, A Stranger to Command, and all the Vidanric POV pieces so some of the facts I pull may come from those. I'll stop blathering now – I hope you enjoy!

_Disclaimer_: Crown Duel and all associated material are the property of Sherwood Smith. That which is not mine, is not mine.

**Chapter 1**

It was the incessant whispering of Lady Arasa, on the far side of the room, which first caused the Duke of Savona to finally glance away from the female dancers in the center.

Not that it was rare for the young, chipper lady to blather on while far more important things held the better claim to one's attention. But the fact that there seemed to be no familiar tone of conspiracy in her voice, and that her somber gaze circled only amongst her intimate friends, instead of wandering about the room for those she would call busy-ears? That was rare.

Russav lightly tapped the tall, slim man splayed on the cushion beside him with his fan.

"It appears that the pleasantries of tonight's music have wrought woeful discord elsewhere. What say you to this counter?" he asked, gesturing at the cluster of young, wide-eyed nobles listening in silence to whatever it was Lady Arasa had to say. His fan twirled in the mode of Careful Words.

His cousin and near-brother Vidanric, the Lord Marquis of Shevraeth, heir to the Renselaeus principality and owner of the most fabulous boots of the evening, stifled a yawn. He had been sitting nearly all night, his demeanor every semblance of a man caught in a drunken stupor. Luckily, his genuine exhaustion helped play that up immeasurably.

"I say that certain interruptions, if proven constant over time, ought to be considered part of the harmony," Vidanric said. His heavy lids and soft drawl could not have belonged to a man more bored. "It is in the breaks in patterns that discord arises."

Russav spread his fan in appreciation. "Quite right, Danric. Quite right." He sat back against his cushion and began counting silently to himself.

"Then again," Vidanric said slowly, once Russav hit twenty, "I find the air amiss of the usual music that transpires in this sort of situation."

The Duke grinned in silent victory. "Give me not even until the end of this set to find out all of it. I'd take you up on a wager to make this blasted night more fun, but I suspect you cannot even count your own fingers at this moment. And not because of _this_."

As he stood, he swooped Vidanric's full wine glass up with him. He couldn't resist a wink before striding off in the opposite direction of the chattering lady, confident that other forces would endeavor to bring him to her side.

Meanwhile, Vidanric wondered why he had never learned the art of sleeping with his eyes open. What good was knowing how to wield a Marloven broadsword in a ghastly situation such as this? Unless it was to cut himself a tunnel through the ground, to home and to comfort.

True to his word, Russav returned before the musicians and dancers completed the end of their set. Only this time, the jovial grin was gone. His lips were lined in slivers of white, a single faint line in his brow betraying the extent of his anxiety. His wine was untouched.

The wine, Vidanric decided, was the most concerning part of all.

Russav sat back on the couch and snapped his fan open. His brow did not even begin to smoothen until he had concealed a portion of his face - partly from Vidanric as well, his cousin noted. It was something Russav did only when the news was really and truly awful.

"Russav," Vidanric said gently.

Savona embarked on a noble but futile attempt to pretend he hadn't heard.

"_Russav_." Not the voice of dear Danric any longer, but layered with the clipped expectations of a military commander.

"It appears," Russav said slowly, striving for a nonchalance that he knew would evaporate once Vidanric heard the extent of things, "That the Astiars have befallen an unexpected tragedy."

At the whitening of Vidanric's face, Russav's courage momentarily fled him. He chased the remainder of the wine down to the last drop and filled both their glasses anew.

Vidanric then opened his mouth to speak, but Russav knew that anything he said at that moment would put them both in danger. His throat and stomach burning, he gasped out, "Not her. The old Count. And her brother."

In the most careful language he could muster up, Russav relayed what he'd learned from Arasa. The old Count and Branaric had responded to a call of distress near the southern border of Tlanth. Thinking it a domestic dispute, they set out with one guard riding escort.

The call of distress turned out to be their own, for they were met not by a tearful farm girl but a pack of brigands. By then, the story would take a familiar turn for many in that room, for it was widely known that the brigands of Remalna had a taste for noble blood — and seemed to be very skilled at hunting it down.

The Count and the riding guard had been killed, but Branaric had fought the brigands down and fled, wounded, on horseback. He spent two days leading them on a chase through the mountains so convoluted that the brigands quickly got themselves in a tangle, and he finished them off.

By the time he reached the old Tlanth castle, he was near death. As of the timing of Lady Arasa's news, he was still trapped in that deep healer's sleep, his body slowly mending what it could. What it could, because it was rumored that he had been struck in the lower back as he fled, in a way that would cost him the use of his legs. Perhaps forever.

Vidanric was silent during the telling, but never had Savona seen his knuckles so white.

"The youngest Astiar," he concluded, for he had no idea what Danric would do if he heard her name at this moment, "Is safe. Understandably distraught, but she was ultimately not remarkable enough to gain the attentions of those that mean ill-harm."

"I believe," Vidanric said, in an even voice barely above a whisper, "It is time we make our exit. Russav, if you would be so kind, I—I find myself terribly indisposed…"

His face slipping back into the heavy-lidded Court mask, the Marquis of Shevraeth downed the wine poured for him by the Duke. Then he leaned against Savona and bleated something belligerent.

At the head of the room, Galdran Merindar watched disdainfully as a drunk, slurring Marquis had to be escorted out by an exasperated, but also very drunk-looking, Savona. Beauty was a most tiresome license in forgiving buffoonery - they would never be considered leaders of fashion if not for the handsome pair they made!

Oh, but he was in too good a mood tonight to be truly rankled. He regretted only that they were not around to catch the burning embers of the latest news - yes, he knew he could count on that air-brained gossip of a girl to spread the word of the Count of Tlanth's demise. Court was long overdue for a reminder of his power, and of his ever vigilant watch.

Not that the scrapple of Tlanth's army, made up of starving townspeople, would ever be a match for his force, but that was not the point. People had been killed for acts of treason far less serious.

With the count and his sorcerous wife deposed, that army would scatter as haphazardly as it was formed. All that was left to do then, was secure the upper hand that he had so successfully won…

* * *

Once safely within the Renselaeus residence, Vidanric no longer felt exhausted. He headed straight for the writing desk, knelt down, and began writing feverishly across a fresh sheet.

"Had you a suspicion?" Russav asked.

Vidanric exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving the paper. "It was a possibility that grew more and more likely with time."

"Through her?" Despite the wine, for all talk of the liquid courage it would bring, Russav still couldn't say it!

Here Vidanric stopped writing. "We have not been in contact since the summer before Colend. We are very much distant associates at this point, if not shadows in memory."

"Oh, come now." Russav made a dismissive gesture.

Vidanric smiled wryly. He did not mention that the cease in communication had been one way. That before they had parted so terribly, he had given her the golden box with which he had communicated to his parents from Marloven Hess. That in Colend, after weeks of sending her several letters, he had finally received a reply. From his mother, informing him that the box had been returned to Renselaeus, unopened.

She had not read a word.

However, the distant association…in this, Vidanric acknowledged his own part. Once he had heard the extent of Tlanth's activities, he had to bury whatever connections still tied him to that provincial county. Which were now, of course, being as furiously dug up as a hungry dog digs up a bone.

"Stars," Russav breathed. "Don't remember too much of Branaric, he only came up that one time, didn't he? But he was always laughing. Didn't seem to mind looking silly."

Vidanric nodded. "Branaric Astiar, to the best of my knowledge, is a pacifist by nature, if not by purpose."

It was the mild way Vidanric said it that made Russav frown, knowing that there was more meaning behind those words. He wasn't sure if he liked moments such as these. Sometime in the many years he'd been gone, Vidanric's mind had been honed into something else entirely. He was always two steps ahead, projecting the ripple effect of each event five months, five years into the future, just as Russav was still grasping to understand the past.

But an idiot Russav was not, nor Vidanric impatient. Enough time passed for Vidanric to finish his letter in silence. The candlelight flickered, their shadows distorting on the walls; the pen provided the music, a steady and rapid scratching.

As he was scrawling his signature, Russav finally spoke. "You are suggesting that whatever the Merindars meant to accomplish did not happen."

"You were a firsthand witness to the Astiar spirit, all those years ago. Those in question meant more than to send a message with the Count's murder. They intended to end a plausible threat of rebellion."

"Old Astiar? The biggest fight that cantankerous wagoon would pick is more likely to be with his socks, for ending up on the wrong feet!"

"Indulge me in an exercise. Suppose that those in question move on to other matters, satisfied that Tlanth is no more. Imagine their confusion then, when activity has not ceased. With the Count gone and Lord Branaric unfit for command, where will their suspicions turn next?"

Vidanric tilted his pen at Russav, an invitation for further cogitation.

Now the color drained from Russav's face. "She would be exposed."

"I confess my surprise, that two attempts at murder would be made only upon the Tlanth males, and not the last two descendants of a royal lineage. Whether it is a blistering oversight or a mark of a far more intricate plot, I cannot yet tell."

"You really think it?" Russav's face was flushed. "You think she's been running it all, unbeknownst?"

"I would not be surprised if, contrary to a recession, Tlanth's efforts to scrounge up an army intensifies," Vidanric noted. "For in attempting to smother the spark, those in question may have ignited a flame."

Russav whistled. "Revenge. But by then it will be too late."

Vidanric handed the now-dry letter to Russav, who scanned it quickly. In it, the Marquis of Shevraeth presented his felicitations to his dear mother the Princess. He spoke of the entertainments of the week, the new clothes he had bought, the fine wine drunk that night. Tucked into all the nothings was a brief mention of Tlanth, with the Marquis wondering if a turn at Court wouldn't do wonders for the lady's spirits - but only if she was of high wit and fashion, and as pretty as her Calahanras mother, for otherwise what a sour note she would be!

"I trust in my mother to put the right machinations in place," Vidanric said. "I am also not discounting the reliability of those in question to gloat over their conquests, as they have done before."

"You mean she will be summoned here as hostage?"

"Perhaps. And I must assume that I do not hold my suspicions regarding the true commander of Tlanth's army in solidarity."

They said nothing further on that. If Galdran was a bad apple in the great Merindar family tree, it was because the one next to him was poisoned to the core.

Russav caught the apprehension on his cousin's face. "Your solution doesn't come with the reassurance it ought to?"

"I must confess, I am not as prepared as I'd like," Vidanric admitted. "Nor am I in good spirits about the inevitable reaction. Renselaeus was a happy interlude, but she will not see it that way. She will be miserable."

Her face, so filled with hurt and rage - that was the last time he'd seen her. How much stronger would her anger be once she saw what he had become, or what she thought he had become? For he had not forgotten the last thing she had said to him.

Vidanric banished those thoughts as best he could. "But I see no other choice. In my extensive travels around the world," and here his voice went wry, "I learned about fish that live in harmony with their predators. By latching onto the underbelly of one that would sooner eat them, they have found the safest spot in the sea."

Russav raised his eyebrows dramatically. "In my extensive travels around the garden outside my room, I discovered a type of parasite that makes its home within a flower. It then destroys the flower, consuming it from within." He held his hand out, made a fist, and then shook it menacingly.

For the first time that night, Vidanric laughed. His ink-stained fingers splayed open in approval. But it was short-lived, and his face changed to worry again. "You know what this means, don't you?" he said cautiously.

"Yes," Russav said, knowing that whatever it meant to him, it meant to his cousin infinitely more. And finally he found the courage to say her name.

It would be the first time Vidanric would hear it in that lofty, courtly drawl - and how strange and false it sounded indeed! - but it certainly wouldn't be the last: "It appears that Lady Meliara of Astiar will finally make her debut in court."


	2. Chapter 2

**More Than One Way To Kill a King**

_Story Notes: _Thank you **camy15** for that awesome review! It's definitely a challenge trying to keep everyone in character during the Greedy Galdran era, since everyone has to be so restrained – including Mel. I promise things will lighten up as the story goes along, and we move closer to the fluff!

_Disclaimer: _Crown Duel and all associated material are the property of Sherwood Smith. That which is not mine, is not mine.

**Chapter 2**

The wind outside fluttered through the carriage curtains, whipping them so fiercely about that they nearly smacked the affronted chaperone sitting across her in the face.

Meliara stifled a much-needed giggle. Instead, she drew the curtains away from the windows under the pretense of tending to the comfort of Ilnore Devenal, the middle-aged woman sent from Athanarel to accompany her to the city. In truth, the breeze was a welcome refreshment to the stifling, stale air in the carriage.

It didn't take very long for that brief interlude of entertainment to subside, and Meliara was once again pensive. She peeked outside the window and was surprised to see a great stone wall looming in the distance, snaking beyond her vision.

Her face must have given her away, for Ilnore said, "Remalna-city. We shall be at Athanarel within the half-hour. Longer, if a crowd gathers in the streets. You'd consider keeping the curtains closed."

Meliara glowered. "I have nothing to hide."

In truth, she had plenty to hide. But as her chaperone was Galdran's crony above all else, she knew that where she was headed, secrets would be a necessary means to preserving her own life. Secrets and lies.

It was not even a week after her father's death, four months prior to today, when the letter from Galdran arrived. She'd bet the entire castle, tatters and all, that he hadn't even written it. It was far too polite - as if that nasty frog was capable of articulate speech whatsoever!

But of course, her indignation could not dispel the import of the message: past the condolences for her father's death and the fervent wishes for Bran's express recovery ("Hah!"), he had extended an invitation for her to come to court after winter. An invitation in name only, for he made only the basest effort to be cordial.

_I am assured that the entertainments of next season will exceed this year's in grandness. They may serve as a sufficient distraction from efforts to put Tlanth in its rightly affairs, a responsibility that your brother will undertake to an admirable degree. _

There, Meliara had rolled her eyes to the point of spraining them. But the implicit warning sobered her. She didn't yet know if Galdran suspected her role in the whole thing (and she tried her best not to think about it, for if so, the "grand entertainments of next season" would commence with her execution). What she did know is that if she did not acquiesce, then Bran's life was forfeit. As was hers.

So began the weeks of sleepless nights, the raging tempers, the loss of appetite. Then that one wild, desperate ride that she had not planned for, lasting days and days, though so clouded in mind was she then that she hardly remembered any of it.

She returned to her senses one morning to find herself in a familiar woods - somehow, she had crossed into Renselaeus. Horrified, she turned her poor horse right around and fled before the Blues could discover her. Upon her return, she wrote back to formally accept the king's invitation.

This began another round of fretting. She knew nothing about the court, except for the fact that she was woefully underprepared and had no books or money to get ready. What barefoot countess could walk into a court and not be laughed straight out of it?

Which led to her second secret: the gifts that began to appear at the crumbling castle, week by week, from a silent benefactor whose identity would remain as tightly sealed as the apparent limitlessness of their coffers.

Someone out there, near or far, was on her side.

"Lady Meliara?" Ilnore's disapproving voice cut into her reflections. "We are at the city gates. Will you permit the search of your coach?"

Meliara blinked up at the guards surrounding the windows, their gazes down towards the ground. She hadn't even realized they'd stopped.

She shrugged. "Don't let _me_ interfere."

For a time the carriage was busy as her trunks were unpacked and sifted, and hollow spaces tapped and prodded.

Mel sat resolutely on her hands to keep from strangling anyone.

And prayed they would not discover her secret.

They were cleared to move on and complete the rest of the uncomfortable journey to Athanarel.

Immediately Meliara understood Ilnore's remark about the curtains. Apparently the nature of her arrival was already familiar to the city's inhabitants, even if her identity was not. They stared through the windows with an unashamed somberness that made her want to slump down in her seat.

Well. Almost.

"Who is that?" she heard someone whisper beyond the wheels.

"Astiar girl. Count's dead, the heir's an invalid," a gruff voice replied. "Here to pay lip service - and maybe some other kind of service too!"

She forced herself to keep her head high, even as color flooded into her cheeks. _Bran_. _You're here for Bran_, she chanted to herself.

"Ilnore," she said, striving for a light tone, "Will there be a greeting party when we arrive at the palace?"

Her stiff-backed chaperone smiled tightly. "Anticipating an audience so soon, my lady? Perhaps you would first prefer to retire to the comforts of your room and freshen up."

"Hardly," Meliara scoffed, then froze. Too easily had she played into Ilnore's trap; the older woman had formed her words into a double-edged blade, and Meliara had all but thrown herself on it.

_You're here for Bran._

Meliara opened her new fan - a gift from her mysterious benefactor - and carefully held it at In Your Confidence. She hadn't yet learned all the modes listed in _The_ _Courtly Arts of Sartor_ - yet another gift, one of the first to be left outside her tapestry by a silent courier. What a ridiculous notion, fan language. Twirling bits of wood and lace when you had a mouth that worked just fine!

"I was not raised in court," she replied, trying to sound sweet. "Forgive my ignorance about the proper customs. Tlanth is not an environment suited to surprises. If I were caught in a situation unknown, what a scene there would be!"

The smug look faded from Ilnore's face. It should not go back to the king that someone under her charge would cause a ruckus in his carefully controlled court.

"No greeting party, my lady," she said finally. "You will not be expected to present yourself at court until His Majesty's return. I believe the day has been left free for you to recover from the journey."

"Thank you." Meliara smiled.

She would have spent a minute gloating over her small parry, except for the pair of light gray eyes flashing outside the window.

Meliara sat up straight and batted the curtain away. She scanned the streets as best she could, for gray eyes, blonde hair, any indication, but the moment was fleeting. There was no one there.

She settled back into her seat, her heart thumping. A trick of the light, she assured herself. But she needed to be more careful. The months of learning, all the books and clothes sent by her benefactor, had not prepared her for what - or who - frightened her most of all.

"I believe, however," Ilnore continued, as if Meliara had not jerked like a startled rabbit, "That the Duke of Savona will hold a small party commemorating…ah, what was it?…the end of the week. On the morrow or soon after. You must expect an invitation, for we all know his true reason for throwing such a thing."

"Savona!" Meliara squeaked.

Ilnore clucked disapprovingly. "I gather that news of the Duke's reputation has reached where court customs have not?"

"He sounds faintly familiar," Meliara strained to say. "I recall my father mentioning him once, along with a certain Marquis of Shevraeth."

Her chaperone's cluck escalated to an actual huff. "The two of them together: purveyors of caprice and play! If only the court prized valor and wisdom over looks. You'd best wear your finest gown if the Marquis of Shevraeth is in attendance. He can make you popular indeed, but he'll not remember your name unless you have at least three ribbons in each sleeve. And may the sun help you if you are not up to speed on the latest cut of sapphire!" Her fan slashed through the air in emphasis.

Meliara hadn't even realized there was a shred of hope harbored within her all these months, until it withered and died at this reveal.

_You'll become just like _them_, _she'd spat when Vidanric had revealed his plan of going away to Colend. Her anger had fueled her to ignore the hurt look in his eyes, which quickly faded into a horrible stony blankness.

That was the second to last thing she'd said to him - at the time, she'd meant to leave a mark that would linger.

Ah, but that hadn't been enough of a sting, because he still stood there, and so the last of it was worse.

_If you do, we will be enemies. I swear it upon my mother's grave. _

Her spirits now fully hanging somewhere around her ankles, Meliara kept silent for the remainder of the way up to the palace.

* * *

After three gown changes, her hair braided and re-braided then finally left to hang straight down to her waist with asterliss braided into the strands, Meliara was ready for the Duke of Savona's party.

At first she feared her swollen eyes and red nose would give her away, but her new maid Mora had seen to that with an ointment of her own concoction.

When she arrived at her rooms the day before, Ilnore had introduced her to Mora, a silent and blank-faced woman, and then left hurriedly. She assured Mel that she would return tomorrow to escort her to Savona's party.

Meliara had begged a moment's privacy: "I'd just like to sleep the rest of the day," she told Mora. "Long journey." The woman understood immediately, and vanished.

With that, Meliara had thrown herself rather dramatically on her bed and wept the hot, noisy tears that had been building in her for nearly half a year.

She'd vowed never to cry in front of Bran, to hide how much Galdran had taken when he'd already robbed Bran of so much. So she hadn't wasted a moment crying when Julen crashed in with the news of her father's death - instead, she rode out to find her brother.

Nor did she cry as hot blood spilled down her hands after she wrenched her knife from a brigand's neck, then slitted another one in the gut. Not one tear as she rinsed off in the icy river afterward, as Bran lay limp - but alive - in the dirt nearby.

But she cried now in grief, and anger, and guilt. She was Galdran's prisoner and absolutely alone. She finally had to concede defeat, all at her own careless doing. There would be no fight for right. There would be no justice. There would just be court, and cruelty, and all of it happening while everyone turned a blind eye!

"Ready?" Ilnore asked her, eyeing her attire with grudging approval. If she wondered how a rustic countess could ever outfit herself so decently, she was too well bred to ask.

Meliara smiled grimly. "Ready as I'll ever be."

They set off down the paths towards Savona's residences on the far side of the courtyard. The purple and gold light of dusk set their shadows afire on the ground.

Meliara stared brazenly around her, drinking in her first sights of the inner palace, the high archways. She had imagined a cold, unforgiving prison, but it had its own sort of beauty. The gardens were especially well tended, and somewhere unseen ran a pleasant tinkling of water.

When she made eye contact with a passing lady, her gaze fled downwards.

_Blast it, you are a countess, no matter how rural. Act like it! _So she lifted her chin.

Her courage wavered again at the shout of laughter, harsh and cold, that burst from Savona's estate. A part of her considered scooping up her skirts and running, with a scream, all the way back to her rooms. Another part of her itched for a sword she did not have, to slay every traitor within.

The sight once they arrived made her lightheaded. So many people were poured into Savona's entertainment rooms, dressed in clothes more fine than anything her benefactor sent. Jewels glistened in shining hair like droplets of rain, and fans moved so quickly she could discern no meaning. They were clustered in groups of varying number, yet moved and joined new groups in an unspoken and natural pattern.

Meliara, no giant to begin with, never before felt so small.

"There is the duke," Ilnore said, not that Meliara could miss him.

Though it had been years, she still recognized the gleaming row of white teeth and the wild array of dark curls. Savona, clustered with three other lords, threw his head back and laughed boisterously at a joke. He had become even more handsome, if that were even possible.

Meliara's jaw worked furiously.

"I shall introduce you." Ilnore bustled forward, Meliara clinging to her arm like a flyaway ribbon. "Your Grace, if I may beg your pardon."

At the chaperone's voice, Savona turned around. He looked upon the older woman with something like derision (at which Mel felt strangely defensive), but then his gaze caught Meliara.

There was no recognition in Savona's eyes of a summer spent together in Renselaeus, throwing knives at targets under Vidanric's sharp eye. Only the obvious glint of an inquisitive study as his eyes roamed her dress.

"Ah, Madame Devenal!" he exclaimed, though he didn't look away from Meliara. "You've brought a souvenir from the countryside. Though I didn't think rosebuds grew so far east?"

His lordling friends shared a murmured chuckle.

Mel plotted at some point to lead Savona underneath a windowsill, so that she might push a flower pot onto his head from above.

The duke smiled, eyes crinkling charmingly. Hers narrowed.

"Countess, if I may present you to His Grace, the Duke of Savona," Ilnore said, her face settling into a reserved, flat expression.

Meliara started the Bow Among Equals, realized her mistake halfway through, and twisted awkwardly to the Supplicant's Bow. Though the idea of being a supplicant to Savona made her grimace visibly.

"None of that, dear Countess, none of that." With a graceful dip, Savona scooped her up to her feet and kissed her hand. His breath was damp upon her skin. "Stars! That violet is absolutely becoming on you. You must wear it more often. And asterliss in your hair! My, what a touch. We sit in the palace shivering and mourning for spring and here you are - a vision of winter seceding to the bloom!"

Meliara blinked at the seamless insert of her hand into his arm - how had _that_ happened? "Pleasure," she murmured, stricken.

"Madam Devenal, permit me to become the guardian of your young charge tonight," Savona rumbled in a deep voice, dipping into a respectable bow. "For you have journeyed through devil and dust and are surely craving a respite. As host, I beg of you, relieve onto me your burdens."

And, without waiting for a reply, he led Meliara away.

Savona was, in a word, ridiculous. He chattered incessantly in her ear, one word of every five making sense. The dashing, foolhardy young man she'd briefly known had turned into a bucket of noise and dramatic gestures. She hardly had time to thank him for his compliments before he'd make another one, only about himself.

"—And I tell you, this room was horrid last year, everything desolately out of fashion! Brown should be left to the trees and soil, so I say! As luck would have it, my Colendi contacts were able to secure me a rosebud carpet. In fact, I have acquired two, one by fortune and one by fortuitous charm. Though as for who shall receive the second, perhaps it is too early to tell?"

He winked at her. She stared back at him, unable to fathom a thing.

Circling the room on the arm of the duke, Meliara received more attention than when she'd come in. Savona introduced her to a select number of people, his accolades about her beauty growing worse by the second. She didn't remember the others' faces or reactions, nor did she speak much. Only a few made an impression — a hopeful looking lord, a beautiful lady with lips set in a flat line as she looked from Savona to her — but she was mostly relieved that none were the encounter she'd been dreading all along. .

"Your stay in Athanarel has so far been agreeable?" Savona asked loftily.

"What?" she said, distracted by a fan mode she did not recognize.

Savona almost looked kind. "It must be quite the adjustment, coming from Tlanth to the palace."

Meliara bit her lip. Perhaps this was a test question sent by the king - a way to keep watch over her while he was away on a state trip. Was the truth worth her death?

"It is well enough," she replied. "I just wish my brother could be here too."

"Ah, yes," Savona sighed mournfully. "How I agree. We often lack an extra hand for dueling and games."

Meliara's head snapped back, blood running cold. She almost lost it then, ready to lunge at Savona with nails flying.

But Savona's attention was at the tapestry now fluttering open. He shouted, "Cousin! Do not think because I am overly fond of you that your mockery of my party will go unexcused! Where have you _been_?"

"Oh, Russav," a throaty drawl floated from the tapestry, drawing nearer. "I can_not_ impressupon my servants enough to warn me of the slightest turn of weather! Already had I fastened my velvet coat - the new one, of crushed blue, with the embroidery we had admired on the Sartoran ambassador - and then the drizzle started. Stars! _Never_ has velvet known a more vexatious enemy than rain. It took the vested interest of my entire household to find a suitable alternative. But then my shoes did not match! To my horror, none were as sufficiently polished or as new as the ones I had picked out, and so…"

With a shake of his head, the Marquis of Shevraeth stepped into the room.

Even in her red haze of anger, Meliara saw that everything she feared had come to pass.

Vidanric Renselaeus, the reflective young man with whom she had spent countless hours discussing political theory, justice, and benevolent leadership, was dead. In his likeness stood a tall, bedazzled fop of a man, devastatingly dressed in a deep blue coat that outshone all the others in the room.

He turned his gray eyes on Meliara, eyelids lifting a fraction in the faintest effort of showing interest.

"But I find that you are occupied?" he murmured. "Ah, asterliss. Hm. Interesting."

Diamonds glittered in his braided hair, in his sleeves, on his fingers — _everywhere_. His expression was one of mild annoyance; the dramatic flutter of his fan denoted such.

But the worst of it was his voice. Flat. Toneless. Elongated vowels and clipped consonants that scratched at the ears with falsehood. If Meliara were to crack the marquis open, she'd wager on finding nothing but a shell.

The idea of Bran, who would never walk again, indulging these court fops in _dueling _and_ games_ made her lightheaded. Had these two been batting at each other with wooden swords under Galdran's approving eye, uttering playacted battle cries, while the king's men slew her father?

The red in her vision grew stronger, blurring with sudden, shameful tears.

"Countess, listen not to his poor countenance tonight!" Russav said, taking her hand. "Permit us to begin anew, and let me introduce you to the Lord Marquis of Shevraeth—"

Meliara yanked her hand from Savona's and - _smack! _- flung it across the marquis's face with a resounding crack, like a whip.

The room fell silent.

She glared up at him with an intensity that burned through her blood. Then she picked up her skirts and stormed through the tapestry.

* * *

In two steps, she realized she'd made a terrible mistake.


End file.
